


Plans

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Murderbaby fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal may kill her, and yet she cannot help the small smile that forms on her lips or the release of air that sounds similar to a laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plans

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Hannibal, although as a fandom we could buy it, I'm just saying LOL. If you've read my other stories, you know I have a thing for murderbaby. So, here's another fic.

Hannibal steps out of the car and walks across the cobblestone streets of Florence. Yesterday, and all of the days before, she had met him exactly at this spot and walked to their home together.

Today, she is not here.

His mind races of the ways that she must have betrayed him. Of all the exit strategies and plan B’s and C’s he knows she’s meticulously concocted, he never considered _this._ Last night she’d been normal, albeit more tired than usual. Had it been a ruse? Had Bedelia been packing in their bedroom when he assumed she was sleeping? _No,_ the logical side of his mind supplies. Bedelia is many things but she is not a coward. Her background in psychology has oozed into her personal life, influencing her need to formally end _all_ relationships, their own included. She would never leave without a firm goodbye. Hannibal’s mind begins to speed up- there’s a bounty on his head, had they taken her to get to him? His mind reels when he realizes that he’s formed an attachment, a habit of having her around. His fear forces him to conclude that it isn’t just attachment, but affection, possibly even love.

Hannibal’s feet carry him quickly back to their home, hoping that he hasn’t lost her presence. “Bedelia?” He questions, his voice laced with worry as he opens the front door to their villa. His response is muffled coughs, followed by a croaked ‘Here _’_

In their time together, he has never encountered her truly sickly, but here she is, hunched over the toilet, expelling the contents of her stomach. She’s lost weight in their year away from Baltimore, truly evident by the vertebrae he sees through the expensive silk on her dress as she continues to wretch. Hannibal places his large but agile hands in her hair, lacing the blonde strands through his fingers and pulling it from her face. When she finally appears to be finished, she sits back on her heels with a gasp. He mutely fills a glass with water and offers it to her. Bedelia slowly rises to her feet.

“I left the library around 11,” she explains without prompting. “I can’t keep anything on my stomach.” His brows knot as she swishes the water in her mouth before spitting in the sink.

“Do you think you’ve caught the flu, Bedelia?”

“I have all the symptoms: fatigue, cold sweats, headache, vomiting, nausea…” she begins to slow in her clinical listing of symptoms, gears beginning to move rapidly in her mind. Hannibal, unaware of her mental count, checks her head for fever, finding none.

“Dizziness…” She mindlessly says as he leads her to their bedroom, “my breasts have been tender,” her voice is nearly a whisper.

“Not a symptom of flu, perhaps-”

“I-I’m pregnant,” Bedelia nearly sobs, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Her shaking hand is pressed to her mouth, the diamond on her ring-finger glistening. Her eyes dart around their bedroom, her eyes refusing to meet his. This wasn’t part of her plan. Hannibal may _kill_ her, and yet she cannot help the small smile that forms on her lips or the release of air that sounds similar to a laugh.

* * *

Bedelia’s hand rubs over her swollen middle, soothing the spot where her child just kicked. As the months ticked by, so did her dress sizes, and now she’s resorted to high-end boutiques specializing in maternity couture, refusing to wear the stereotypical blue-stripped-spandex sundress, or stretch-paneled jeans.

Hannibal’s ears perk when he hears the tell-tale sign of Bedelia’s steps, although they are labored and measurably slower than usual, they are specifically hers. This was his _first_ visitor, outside of frenzied psychiatrists, past conquests, and desperate writers. Her face is fuller, but only slightly so, years of yoga keeping her body svelte as any woman 9 months pregnant could be. Bedelia’s deep blue, knee-length dress hugs her feminine curves and emphases to anyone who is looking that she is with _child. Whose_ child it is, is another story. To the press, she is carrying twins and in her 5 th month, deciding that after her ordeal and miraculous escape, she couldn’t put her life and aspirations on hold any longer. To the press, she has conceived through an anonymous donor- she is the story of a phoenix, rising from the ashes.

It is only now, 90 days after his Hannibal’s initial incarceration, that she is allowed to see him. She slowly approaches his cell, yearning for his firm hands to rub her stomach, to massage the cramps from her back. She steps as close to the frame as her stomach will allow, and rakes over his body with her eyes. Hannibal is close enough that he can see a contraction ripple across her firm stomach, and he tenses for a moment at her unsteady breath and clenched eyes before she silently mouths “Braxton hicks” to him. She soothingly rubs her stomach after, giving him a soft smile, as the diamond wedding band glistens on her ring finger.

“It’s a boy,” she whispers, too softly for the illegal cameras Dr. Chilton uses to spy on his _favorite_ patient. Her eyes sparkle and her skin glows when she turns to leave at Dr. Chilton’s instruction-visitation time was over.

* * *

“Was it nice to finally see your captor caged, Dr. Du Maurier?” Frederick Chilton asks in smug satisfaction, as if it was _he_ that caught Hannibal.

“Very,” she nods firmly, rubbing at her stomach once again as the child furiously kicks, wanting to make his presence known. He was up and hungry, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep until he was appeased. “I wish to see him again.”

“To help with your recovery, of course.” Dr. Chilton smiles, happy to have ‘the one that got away’ to rub in Hannibal’s face as much as possible.“That can be arranged.”

When Bedelia leaves, Hannibal returns to his memory palace, but their shared bedroom in Florence is different. The room smells of Guerlain Shalimar, the distinct scent of Bedelia’s old, French mother. He smiles.

Even if he were to rot in this cell for the remainder of his life, he would not be the last of the Lecter’s. He will not rot. He only needs to wait- his plan has already been set into motion.

She will see him soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Send me a prompt! I'll get around to it eventually (probs while I'm on my death-bead).


End file.
